


i dreamt about fire last night, i dreamt about roses

by whiplash



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempted Sexual Assault, F/M, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mild Gore, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1300354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pilot retold in an attempt to answer the question "what if they were all women"?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the warning. This story begins with a graphic description of an attempted sexual assault and its aftermath.

"Stop struggling, or I'll slit your throat. Don't matter none to me if you're breathin' for this."

He has blue eyes and freckles scattered over his face. His breath stinks and, if she didn't know better, she'd have thought that the scratches running down his arms were from trying to drown a cat. She wonders why her father hasn't come looking for her. She thinks about her mother, always worrying about her queer thing of a daughter. She decides, in between one painful breath and another, to keep fighting.

He's struggling with the laces of his trousers, working left-handed as his right hand remains wrapped around her neck. His legs keep her arms pinned by her sides, but her own legs — under the heavy travelling dress and the layers of petticoats — are free. After sparing exactly three shallow breaths for prayer -- not for the life she fears she might be forfeiting, but for the grief her death would bring to her parents -- she twists and kicks. A lifetime of helping out at the farm, running after her father and the other men, dragging their tools behind her and bringing their lunches to the fields has left her stronger than she looks.

She believes, she genuinely does, that she might have a chance. That she might make it.

She doesn't. She's strong, but just not strong enough.

He punches her in the face. She's never been punched before in her life. Slapped once, when her mother had been in tears and all the tongues in the village waggled about that d'Artagnan girl running as wild as an orphan. Spanked more times than she could count and her father had, only half-jokingly, threatened to use the rod for her next thrashing if she persisted in acting more like a boy than girl. But punched... no, never.

Her head falls back against the hay with a loud thud. Everything goes fuzzy, the world darkening around the edges and the sounds around her — the man's harsh panting, the horses snorting and stomping and, beyond that, the sound of fighting — come and go like waves on the ocean. She sees, without truly understanding, how he picks up the knife. It's a wicked thing, with a curved blade and a decorated handle. He presses it against her neck and she realizes that she's going to die. She's not going to get married with some boy from the village, she's not going to have any fat children clinging to her skirts, she's not going to get old and gray and sharp-tongued.

She's not even going to live long enough to help her father with the harvest.

And she thinks perhaps she ought to close her eyes, but she's forgotten how to so instead she stares past his shoulder. It's petty perhaps, but she doesn't want him to see the fear in her eyes. The tip of the knife bites into her skin and she holds her breath.

_Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis_  
_Sancta Dei Genitrix, ora pro nobis_  
_Sancta Virgo virginum, ora pro nobis_  


And then an angel descends.

"Pardieu!" it says, lifting a pistol and shooting the would be rapist straight through the head.

xxx

The angel's name is Athos.

But that's skipping ahead. Before she introduces herself, the angel heaves the corpse to the side. It lands on its back, half its head missing and its trousers tangled around its legs. It's the second time in her life that Charlotte has seen a man naked from the waist down. Turning her head, she empties her belly onto the blood-soaked hay as the angel kneels down beside her.

She's not beautiful. Charlotte won't realize this fully until hours later though, because the eyes meeting hers shine as fiercely as any warrior's and the curls framing the angular face are as wild and bright as a halo. She smells of gun powder and sweat, of well-oiled leather and death. Anyone could be forgiven for thinking her divine. But then the angel speaks, drawing Charlotte's attention to the cleft-lip and the sourness of cheap wine on her breath, and the spell breaks. 

"My name's Athos," the woman sayss, voice slow and clear. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Athos," Charlotte repeats, grimacing as she's made aware of the taste of blood -- hers or her attackers -- in her mouth. Her stomach attempts to rebel again, but this time she manages to force down the bile. "That's the name of a mountain, not a woman."

"And yet it's my name," Athos assures her, offering a crooked smile.

And that's how Charlotte d'Artagnan finds herself introduced to Athos.

One of Anne of Austria's three most trusted women.


	2. Chapter 2

If Athos appears to Charlotte as an avenging angel, then Aramis must be an angel of mercy.

It's Aramis who helps her prepare her father's body for the journey back to Gascony. Aramis who kneels with her on the hard wooden floor and prays for his departed soul. Aramis who holds her as she begins to shake, the control of her limbs as lost to her as her father and her own innocence. She's the one who sits Charlotte down on the edge of the bed, undressing her and washing her with the same gentle care just given to her father's limp body. The one who wraps her ribs and rubs salve on the ugly patches of darkening skin. The one who combs the hay and dirt out of her hair and plaits it into a thick braid.

And she's the one who sits with Charlotte in the darkness, stroking her shuddering back as she falls asleep.

xxx

Charlotte wakes to a bright morning and a numb, heavy feeling in her head.

From the moment she opens her eyes, she remembers. She doubts she will ever forget. She doesn't want to forget. Her father's bloodless face and empty eyes, her battle for life in the dirty hay of the inn's stable, Athos' bravery and Aramis' compassion... those are all things which needed to be remembered. There's a scream building in her chest and her nails dig half-moon marks into the palms of her hands. It takes her utterly by surprise, this fury glowing as bright and hot as the sun. She's sweating with it, beads running down her spine. She's trembling just as she had the evening before, only now it's anger, not grief that wrecks her body.

Next to her -- dark hair fanned out on the pillow, soft hands slack on the blanket and each breath a soft sigh -- sleeps Aramis. Charlotte stares at her, some small part of her that's not yet fully drenched in rage reminding her of the other woman's kindness. To repay such compassion with anything but gratitude would be unthinkable.

So Charlotte leaves.

With naked feet and bare legs, nothing but a borrowed nightshirt to protect her from the cold and accusations of complete indecency, she storms from the room. The dog, a useless mongrel that had barked upon their arrival to the inn the previous day, whines and ducks under a table as it sees her. Charlotte has never kicked a dog before, but this morning she'll make no promises. Outside there's a cat basking in a sunny spot. Smoke rises from the chimney, but she can see no people. She stomps out into the yard, her feet sinking into the mud as she marches towards the stable. Their horses, still in the stalls where she'd left them, prick their ears and raise their tails in interest at her arrival.

Pushing on past them, she finds herself staring at the spot where she'd been taken by surprise.

He's gone now, but there's blood still in the hay. Blood and bits which must be bone or flesh. She wants to burn it. Wants to see flames consume the evidence of what had happened, as surely as the flames of hell would consume her attacker. Before she knows it, she's pulled back her fist and slammed it against the wall. It hurts, but it's a good pain. It's the kind of pain which she's in charge of herself and which allows her to focus. She does it again, and again, and again until something stops her. No, not something. Someone. Someone with strong, dark hands, someone who stands tall and straight, someone who's snuck up on her and touched her without her permission.

Growling, Charlotte swings her fist. Connecting with flesh and bone hurts as much as hitting the wall, but the satisfaction... oh, the satisfaction. She strikes again. The person grunts and steps back but instead of stopping, she follows, arms hammering at the stranger's chest. She screams and that feels good too, so she keeps hitting and screaming until she can't lift her arms anymore. The stranger seems to sense the moment that happens and, seizing her wrists, twists her around so that she's held tightly against a warm, solid chest. Charlotte hangs there as limp as a rag doll and much too exhausted to feel any fear of retribution.

"It appears we were mistaken," a voice breaks in. "We thought we'd found a lamb, but I see now that I've spent the night next to a tiger."

"A tiger?" rumbles the stranger. "A cub, at most!"

As Charlotte raises her head, she finds Aramis and Athos standing mere feet away. They're dressed as they had been the night before; Aramis in the sombre traveling dress of a widow and Athos in a man's breeches and doublet with pistols and a rapier on her belt.

"Put the child down, will you?"

No sooner are the words out of Athos' mouth before Charlotte's feet touch the ground. She swings around at once to face her capturer, though the glare melts away at the realization that she's looking at yet another woman. One with dark hair, cropped close to the skull, and dark eyes which appear to be dancing with laughter. Just like Athos she's wearing men's clothing, but hers are of a finer cut and heavy with embroidery. Even the hat on her head comes decorated with a fanciful plume.

"May I present Porthos, a dear friend of ours," says Aramis, closing the distance between them and gripping Charlotte's arm gently. "Porthos, mademoiselle d'Artagnan."

"My pleasure," grins Porthos, making a show of rubbing her shoulder. "Though had she been more of a tigress and less of a cub, I'm not sure I'd have been able to say the same with any amount of honesty ."

Parsing the words and finding an insult, Charlotte throws herself forward again only to find that the iron band of Aramis' fingers around her wrist holds her back with ease.

"Not all of us have mastered the art of of brawling like dogs over a bone," she snaps instead, anger resurfacing from the newly found, never-ending well inside of her. "Perhaps you can give me a lesson or two and then we'll see who's the tiger and who's the lamb."

To her surprise, Porthos just throws her head back and laughs.

"A Gascony tigress," she says, "as proud and strong as any Gascony boy ever was. Had we but the time, mademoiselle, it would be my honour to teach you all I know of 'brawling'. Though, beware, it would take more than a couple of lessons to master that art."

And that's how Charlotte meets Porthos.

The guardian angel of independence.

**Author's Note:**

> As for the name Charlotte, Dumas' d'Artagnan was probably based on a musketeer named Charles. Charlotte is a feminine form of Charles, originating in France and dating back to before the 17th century. Even so it's no doubt horribly inaccurate from a historical point of view -- along with many other things in this story. I've found and added a tag for that though!


End file.
